Striking Gold
by Pickled Lemons
Summary: He buys her body, facing no moral consequences. Since when has Mr. Zabini been a gentleman? Mature. Smut. A little fluff. Review.


It's just pure pleasure, with an animal-hungry Blaise and closet sex-kitten Hermione. Not to mention a hot-and-bothered, keeping on top of things Lord Voldemort, and plenty of dirty darkness. See if you can resist this blessed ficness. As always, read and review.

**Title: Striking Gold**

**Summary: Circumstances force Hermione to sell her body, and Blaise buys it without any moral feeling whatsoever. No surprise. Since when has Mr. Zabini been a gentleman?**

**Disclaimer: You know the routine. I not own this, I not own that, believe you me.**

Blaise stepped into the reception, and closed the door.

'You're late.' A calm, cool voice sounded from inside.

He looked up, but didn't say anything. Instead, he began to slowly, methodically take off his tight drainpipe black coat. Outside on the streets, the snow had been thick and hard around his body, but in the building the air was warm and laced with the fragrances of strange herbs, and a hint of jasmine. He took off his coat, and then hung it up on peg beside the door.

'Sorry,' he said. He turned and faced a tall, thin woman with bright red hair and jeweled winged glasses. She was observing him with her thin arms folded tightly across her green silk ruche dress, and a displeased twist to her painted lips. 'I got caught up. Work was hectic.'

'When you mention a time you should stick to it. I cannot keep my girls waiting. Your personal life has no say over _here_, Mr. Zabini.'

He moved towards her. He was dressed in black trousers and a white, loose shirt that hung about his tall thin frame with ease. He bent down towards her, and his mop of glossy black curls hung forward around his finely chiseled face. His words, when he spoke, were deep and husky.

'Mrs. Vierra, this _is_ my personal life.'

She looked up at him, her eyes wondering, and then they cleared with a startling suddenness. She stood up a little straighter, and cleared her throat.

'She's been waiting for the last fifteen minutes,' she informed him. 'As you can imagine, she is not pleased.'

Blaise laughed easily, and stretched his arms above him, pulling his shirt from the confines of his belt. 'When has she ever been pleased to see me?' he enquired, mockingly. 'I'm a thorn in her already pricked side, always coming back, asking- no, _demanding _for more and more. And when,' his voice became lower now. 'When have I ever cared about what _she_ thinks?'

Mrs. Vierra pursed her lips. 'Very well,' she said. 'If that is how you feel. How long, today?'

He contemplated, raising a fine eyebrow, which arched delicately over a dark blue eye. Sometimes, Mrs. Vierra knew, when the light caught that eye, she could see an even darker, black shadow moving restlessly in it. He raised a slender finger and stroked his jaw.

'Two hours,' he said. 'You want an advance?'

She nodded, gracefully. 'Right now.' She said.

He opened his black briefcase, and pulled out a sack. As he handed it over to her, it jingled faintly. Mrs. Vierra's fingers clasped the sack with an air of longing and greed. She smiled, a hooked, curved smile. 'You know where to go, Mr. Zabini. I'll be up in two hours.'

He nodded, and the turned away from her, mounting the gilded staircase to a landing above. As he walked, he was conscious of a restless stir in his body, his skin heating up until it was fire to touch. His fingertips twitched with anticipation, but his breathing remained cool and collected. His footsteps directed him almost subconsciously to the door right in the corner- a dark rosewood door, with silk-tasseled doormat in front of it. Slowly, deliberately, he stood on the mat and placed his hand on the metallic doorknob. It felt cool, and smooth to touch. He turned it, and the door slowly creaked open.

As he stepped into the room, the atmosphere changed. The brightly hit halls and foyers receded into the past, and his mind took in every detail of the room which he already knew by heart- the dim lighting which considered of a single lamp in a silken shade, the thick rose-toned carpet which was so soft beneath his feet, the low papier-mache, mother-of-pearl inlaid table, which had a slender, gracefully curved hookah sitting atop it, and at the far corner, a four poster single bed, with luxurious thick eiderdowns which were tossed to a side, and silken sheets that were rumpled under her squirming form.

When he saw her, every emotion that he had suppressed inside his pounding blood came crashing down about him. He saw everything through different eyes, felt everything through a different skin. His mind reeled back into the past, reminding him of the times he had known her in school. She had held a different name, then- Hermione Granger, snub-nosed, bushy haired teacher's dream-come-true, leaking of innocent, and naiveté. All that had changed, after their seventh year, when the highly-dreaded Final Battle had touched the shores of reality, and ravaged it in such a way that the Wizarding Community was still left dazed- dazed that their savior, the brilliant Harry Potter had died, the well-intentioned, good-hearted Ronald Weasley had been blown to smithereens and the clever, intelligent, smart young witch that was Hermione Granger had disappeared into thin air.

Only, of course, she hadn't disappeared, and Blaise was the only one who knew her true identity. He had seen her figure, limping away when the battle was still in full swing. She was wounded, and he had followed her to the ramshackle hut in which she had hidden until she was sure the battle was over, knew from the triumphant cries of the vultures that her friends had been killed. And then, though she did not know it, he had followed her every move with his dark eyes, watching as she approached Mrs. Vierra who owned the most fashionable brothel in town. She had been put up as a new angle- with a twist: the virgin who lay there, just waiting to be ravaged. And ravage her was exactly what Blaise did. She had changed her name and her looks, but he was the only person who knew who she really was, and because of that she could not turn him away. Moreover, he was the only one who knew of her cowardly act- abandoning her friends even as they fought threw their wounds, and she would not let him allow anybody to know of this. As he stared at her body, lying on the sheets, all this surrounded him, and he smiled to himself. Despite his better senses, he found that he held some amount of feeling for her- all the feeling that he kept hidden within his hard body during the times he was with the Dark Lord and his fellow Death Eaters. It all came out when he was with her.

And now, there she was on the bed before him. As before, Blaise found himself drinking in her new looks, her new body- thin and white, clothes in a silk golden bathrobe, with her slender limbs tied with velvet cords to the bed. Her face was gently shaped, her lips shell-pink, and her eyes a sharp ice-blue, surrounded by thick, long lashes. Her hair was an explosion of sheet-like red-gold, which fell poker straight around her shoulders and over the sheets. She stared at him from the bed, hate evident in her gaze.

He walked towards her, and crouched down on the floor beside the bed, so that their faces were level. He looked at her, and smiled easily.

'Maya Ranger,' he said, mockingly. 'How do we find ourselves today.'

She did not answer, merely pursed her lips and looked determinedly in the other direction, refusing to meet his eye.

'Come now,' he taunted. 'Don't turn away from me. I've already seen the worse you can do, abandoning your loved ones on the battle field, and-.'

Like a whip she snapped around and glared at him. 'Don't you dare,' she said, in a low, trembling voice. 'Don't you dare mention that. I don't want your foul lips to defile their memory, their-.'

Before she could finish, he had leaned forward and caught her jaw in his vice-like grip. 'Who, me?' he whispered, his lips dangerously close to her ear. 'Me, defile their memory? Or you, defiling their existence by running away from them when they needed you. You're a dirty little vixen, selling your body as a common slut on the streets. And you're going to get what's coming to you.'

Her hands were tied, but still her eyes gazed at him, fiery hot like hell. 'Common slut on the streets?' she echoed. 'And since when has a gentleman like you ever visited a common slut on the streets?'

Her words were challenging him, drawing him away from his protective title and wealth, and he knew it. A light smile touched his soft lips, and he leaned forward and nuzzled her cheek.

'Since when,' he demanded softly, still tasting her sweet skin, 'Have I given you reason to believe that I am a gentleman?'

He climbed onto the bed then, and Hermione shuddered as she felt his hard, hot body on top of her. He was ravishing her body in such a way that defiled her pride and dignity, as if she was candy, or some _thing_ that he wanted to taste. He always did that to her, reducing her from a proud woman to an offering of flesh to sate his desires, and she hated it. As she watched, he rose from her face, and his long legs, still in their formal black trousers straddled her lean hips.

'These hands,' he said, slowly, and lifted his white, long, fingers, 'Have held wands, knives, killed, _ripped_ people apart. Do you really think,' he slid one finger to the deep V-neck of her dressing-gown, 'That they will offer you any mercy?'

Hermione shivered, as horror mixed with anticipation filled her. Her mind was numb with terror and fright, the kind he always invoked in her, but her body as hot and aching for his touch, his sweetness. She steeled her tongue, and threw his words back at her face.

'Common hands that they are,' she said, coldly. 'To have done what every other coward on the streets has done today, I expect no less.

He chuckled then, coldly, and she felt her terror multiplying. 'So,' he said, 'The little miss isn't quite as innocent as I thought. I shouldn't be surprised, though.' He brought his mouth very close to hers. 'I know what you're capable of.'

He crashed his mouth down on hers, and against her will, she found her body responding and moving up to meet him. The kiss was hot and hasty, and he pulled away too soon.

'I love seeing you like this,' he said, 'Tied up and waiting for me on the bed. But I'm tired today, and I expect a bit more.'

With that, he raised his wand and her bonds shriveled away. Immediately she sat up in bed, and began to massage her chaffed wrists and ankles. Blaise watched with a half-smile curving his lips.

Finally, she turned and faced him. 'What do you want from me?' she asked, coldly.

He reclined on the floor, on the softness of the carpets, and when she said this, his smile widened, and was suddenly feral.

'Take off that bloody piece of cloth,' he instructed, 'And come here.'

She knew she had to obey, and deep inside, she finally found that she _wanted _to obey. Without hesitating, she stood, and let her fingers trail along the waist of her dressing down. Slowly, she pulled at the girdle, until it snaked away from the golden, shimmering cloth and it fell open revealing her perfectly flat stomach and the soft, yearning flesh inside.

Blaise uttered a feral moan, and indicated that she should come to him. She moved easily towards him, lying down on the floor, and then raised one foot gracefully, and planted it on the other side of him on the floor. In one slow, sliding movement, she had lowered herself, and was straddling him, her knees on the ground as he moaned with delight at the feeling of her warm body slowly massaging his erection.

'Oh, fucking _gods_… harder…'

He thrust his body up against her, and Hermione quickly brought her fingers to the buttons of his shirt. In no time at all they were off, and Blaise propped himself up while she swept it off his broad, tanned shoulders. Immediately, he leaned back again, and allowed his head to hang as she ran her hands over his bare-naked chest. He could feel her gold-painted fingernails lightly grazing his skin, and the sensation was intoxicating. He sensed her moving on top of him, and next moment he could feel her silky hair brushing his chest as she took one nipple in her mouth.

For Blaise, it was a week's pent up frustrations being let loose. He moaned with feeling as her hot tongue began to trace its way up his chest. The silky coolness of the dressing gown, which was still hanging off her body felt good on his cool skin. It was just as her small hand moved its way up to ruffle his mop of curls that he remembered himself.

His eyes snapped open, and glowed with an animal urgency. In two seconds, Hermione found herself pinned to the ground, with him sitting on her mid section. She gasped as his hands roughly wrenched the dressing gown away from her body, leaving her naked on the floor behind him. His hands, palms roughened from his work for the Dark Lord traced their way around her breasts, smoothened her stomach, and ran lightly over her thighs. She moaned softly as he pulled his own trousers away from him, and then in a few minutes he was hovering over her, completely naked.

The heat that filled the room was intoxicating, gathering around them both, and firing them with such energy that it was hardly imaginable. To Blaise, this was the best time, when they had forgotten their circumstances, and everything that forced them to this, and the fighting and sniping was all done. This was what he came for, the crux of his visits to the dingy little brothel, when he had her all about him, and felt her heat enveloping her. He raised her to the pitch of pleasure, molding and stroking and she moaned with complaint response. He love doing this, pulling her away from her rigid surroundings and reducing her to a writhing, moaning girl lying sweaty on the middle of the floor.

Minutes passed. Both lay on the ground, spent, sated, and tired, and reveling in the musky heat they had caused. Hermione moved slowly, and curled up against his side. He found her hand, and their fingers linked. When he spoke, his voice was soft and husky.

'We should do this more often,'

She countered, 'you're the only who comes calling.'

He chuckled. 'Each time I come I'm met with a frown. I'm met with hatred. Why should I return?'

Her voice was muffled against his side. 'Because I love you.'

He was silent for a long time, and her senses heightened, her hearing suddenly acute for the 'I love you too,' that she wanted to hear.

'_Do_ you now?' Blaise asked. His voice was taunting.

Suddenly, she felt like she couldn't bear it anymore. She sat up, and faced him, eyes teary.

'Yes, I _do_, Blaise! I tell myself not to, I tell myself I hate you, but I love you so much! Don't you see? You're the only person I have in this whole world. You're the only person who knows me as- well, _me, _Hermione Granger.'

Immediately, he sat up too, and his arms were around her, drawing her to him. 'Hermione…' he breathed. He felt her calming down in his arms. 'Listen to me,' his voice was deep and rich. 'I feel for you, I love you so much, you have no idea. All my feelings, all my emotions come crashing down when I'm with you. You're the only person I can let down my guard with, withdraw all my defenses, and I- I _love_ you, dammit!'

His arms were suddenly very tight around her, his lips hot against hers. Her blood pumped with adrenaline and happiness. His confession rung like bells in her triumphant ears. He loved her, _loved_ her, and there was nothing more perfect than that. She could lie there for hours, and hours, thinking of nothing and no one but Blaise Zabini, holding her in his arms like he did now, whispering in her ear like he-

Her train of thought was cut off. Suddenly, her hand was blazing. She realized that the skin of his forearm, which she was clutching tightly, was red-hot.

He felt it to. With a start, he pushed her away from him and stared at it. A deep black welt on his arm, in the frightening shape of a skull glowered deeply from there, having just turned coal red. To Hermione, it looked like all the tenderness she had brought out in him vanished. His deep blue eyes were suddenly hard and cold, like eyes. He brought them back up to her, and she felt a familiar despair welling up inside her.

'Blaise-.' She started, but he cut her off.

'I don't want my name being soiled by your slutty lips,' he whispered, his voice filled with poison. He was on his feet, looking for his clothes. 'I serve a more noble purpose, and my master awaits me. I'll be back in a week, _Ranger. _I'll be back and buy your body like the common whore that you are.'

He dressed as he spoke, and as the last few words were out of his mouth, he gave her a last hard look and strode out of the door. It banged resolutely behind him.

Hermione curled up on the floor, tears leaking down her face. It happened every time he left her. All the love he had given her in the past few hours dissolved into a cold, hard goodbye. He treated her like a road slut, a piece of gold that he had to pay for to own. He treated her like she was a common whore.

But then, she mused, since when had Blaise Zabini been a gentleman?


End file.
